Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Chapt. 43 (1st draft -- In the Arena)

It's the
swirling...no. There's no swirling. What then? Ridge...circular
ridge...no no no no no...ripple! That's it! The ripple in the deep
garnet red, rolling out from the...where the drop plunked into the
deep garnet...the drop! Holy shit...

House
Speaker Edith Glick's head entered a terrible clarity at this moment,
one of several she then knew she'd experienced since things had
started swirling...there
it was again. Swirling. Of course! It was the swirling cognizance. In
and out of realization and then loooong stretches of...what? How long
has this been going on? Forever! Ever! No! It couldn't have it just
seems like it forever forever ever but only an hour at the most how
can this be? Omigod...another ripple ipple ipple ipple...WAIT! No
more drops! It's the...Omigod I
TOOK
THE SHIT! No wonder I couldn't find the goddam capsule for chrissake!
I took the goddam capsule I musta thought it was the goddam ginkgo
biloba shoulda put the goddam thing in a different goddam thing oh
shit SHIT I can't give this to fucking Kudlow! Not now! He's a dumb
ass but if he goes down in a babbling ball of batshit and I'm already
a babbling ball of batshit then that means next comes...

Despite her sudden
panic she understood the extraordinary license she'd been given by
the collective befuddlement President Morowitz's surprise performance
brought to the room. Everyone was agape. An appearance by Morowitz
was not scheduled, but this surprised few of those invited to the
exclusive annual Gridiron Club dinner. So when his “show” seized
the airwaves only minutes into the start of the program its
organizers quickly lowered the projection screen and turned the roast
over to the commander in chief.

Most at first
assumed it was planned, that Morowitz was mailing it in. That he
wasn't funny at first was no surprise either. It soon became apparent
something terrible was happening.

“Did
he say WACKO?” The murmured acronym quickly caromed among the
guests, many of whom the Klux owned and managed, while presumably at
least one or two actual WACKOs were in the room.

Shuffling, stumbling
and muttering like participants in a zombie apocalypse rehearsal,
organizers and featured guests moved from the raised head table to
find seats on the lower level, allowing them to watch out of the
overhead spotlights' glare as the president came apart.

Glick
attached herself to Vice President Kudlow. Unable to find the capsule
in her purse during dinner and not wanting to use the more
conspicuous delivery, she was relieved to see the wine glass in his
hand as they worked their way down to an empty table.

“Don't
spill it,” she said to the infamously clumsy former Ohio senator
plodding beside her.

“Aw,
Edie, you don't believe all that stuff in the media, do ya?
Oops...didn't spill a drop haha.” His elbow had brushed her arm,
accidentally, she assumed, as Kudlow was not one to, as he would put
it, kid around. It was her turn to feel awkward when they reached the
table, as she sat on the left of the left-handed oaf to give her
easier access to the wine glass.

“You
a lefty, too?”

“Uh,
no, Quentin. This gives me a better angle to see our president make
an ass out of himself.”

Glick's
unusual irritation at being shushed was her first indication
something was wrong. She started turning to glare in the direction of
the shushing, then remembered who she was and where she was and then
remembered what she had to do to Kudlow and then managed to choke off
what she knew would quickly become a shrieking giggle. To her horror
she realized that in spite of her understanding of all this she
actually was glaring in the direction of the shushing. It seemed
she'd been glaring for hours.

“Hey,
Edie. C'mon.” Louie Lumpkin was pulling gently on her arm.

“Louie,
where the fuck am...are we?”

“Time
to go, Edie. Sorry, Homer. Cutting in, old boy.”

Former
Vice President Lumpkin steered Glick away from President Pro Tempore
Homer Twining. Twining's narrow, gargoyle face registered a ménage
à trois
struggle among fright, lust and confusion as his head wigwagged from
the Morowitz fiasco on the screen to the babbling Glick and to her
escort and back and forth and back, eventually breaking the pattern
by taking a grateful slug of the cabernet in the glass he'd seen
Glick eyeing.

“Shit,”
he thought he heard from Glick as she and Lumpkin wove unsteadily
among the tables to an exit.